The Binding
by Tes-thesula
Summary: A mysterious order capture a powerful being for nefarious purposes
1. Chapter 1

_There is a map._

_In a basement of a dusty Stormwind home, the floor set with truesilver and platinum arcs that circle and cross without seeming reason nor pattern, there is a map like no other._

_It dominates the dark chamber, easily as wide across as a man is tall it pulls the eye towards it. Though it is only a representation of the world it looks as though it should weigh as much as the real thing. It is as if it has been placed on a taut sheet and that everything tumbles towards it._

_It is a map of Azeroth. The finest cartographers and explorers were hired in its construction, years ago now. No expense spared as every inch of the world was measured and recorded. The scale is perfect, every mountain and valley rendered, rising and falling in craggy beauty. Looking down at the map is looking down at the world from a great height; look closer and there would be no surprise to see tiny figures going about their lives._

_Earth has been shaped from bronze, still gleaming with warmth as if it were forged yesterday, while the ocean, with waves like a wind blown across it, is a sea of solid steel. Other metals and precious stones have been placed here and there, indifferent to the borders of politics and war, they indicate things not seen on any other map – the continent of Northrend, for one, is shot through with veins of the metal Saronite, the cancerous green seeming to throb in the dull light._

_It might be dismissed as a mere curiousity, some folly to ruin the wealth of a tasteless nobleman, if not for the thrum that sets the hairs on the back of the neck to tickling, the oppressive closeness of the room that is air laden with magic._

_The base of the map, on which the great circle of the world rests, is a solid stump, all twisting shiny brass, grates that glow with the purple blue of arcane energies, and clockwork. As yes, the clockwork. Cartwheel-sized gears that turn, each tooth inscribed with a theurgic symbols, they tick deep in the chest, a sound more felt than heard, the heartbeat of the world._

_All of it, the paths on the floor that recreate the lines of energy that sleet through the Twisting Nether with cosmic apathy, the arcane engine laced with enchantment, the choice of metals and the efforts of dozens of master craftsmen…all in service of the other feature of the map._

_Across the surface of this faux-Azeroth are strung hundreds of wires. Copper wrapped in gold, for those two metals strum with the rhythms of magic, encase the world in a net, a skein of sensitivity. Across the Eastern Kingdoms the net is complete, there is hardily a square inch that is not crossed by at least once – years of man hours by mages linking the real world to the Analogy. Northrend has fewer, and Kalimdor even less, though progress is being made. _

_It is a map of power._

_Any large outburst of energy in the world, magical or otherwise, is sensed by the wires and recorded by the engine. Most minor magery is ignored, far too small to register, but there have been events that torn at the fabric of the map…_

_The opening of the Dark Portal played a discordant song_

_The reigniting of the Sunwell snapped wires and scorched the metal of the map _

_Tonight, something is stirring the Analogy. A wire twangs as it splits in two and then is followed by the hum as wire after wire vibrates the movement across the world like a shadow._


	2. Chapter 2

The dark-cowled figures moved through the trees silently, closing on a man kneeling at the shore the creek. The man's head slowly raised as they approached and the Constructor was appalled to see that he was little more than a boy, the first fuzz of a beard on his chin and his arms still thin with youth. He held back, letting the others pass him; was this really who they had come for? He could sense nothing different from the boy, no heady scent of god-like power.

The boy cocked his head, 'Wha-'

He could not even finish the question as he was hammered into the earth, missile after missile of cold star-bright magic slamming into his frail body, great gouts of soil and dirt exploding into the sky as the Wizard unveiled her power, her arms thrown wide, lips ever moving.

The Constructor was impressed, the well of her mana seemed endless. The stars span through the air seeming to curl lazily before rocketing into the crater that had been the boy. Ten, then twenty, the barrage continued, dust hanging in the air and the sharp retort of the impacts.

Finally silence, the Wizard dropped her arms to her side, eyes bright. Never before had he seen her let loose, and though he was no battlemage, he noted to be more wary of her in future. All other gazes were on the hole, which steamed gently, the occasional spark of wild magic darting across its surface.

A hand grabbed the soft side of the crater, took a hold of the dirt and pulled. A voice rumbled all around them, echoing like the beat of war drums.

_Who are you to strike me?_

The Constructor's mouth dropped open. The Wizard could have leveled a house with that assault, but the voice sounded merely annoyed. He hoped Priest knew what he was doing.

Off to his left something flared up and he turned to see Mavelloc wreathed in ruby red flames and twists of deepest darkness. So the warlock was going to finally show them what he was capable of then? Reaching out as if to grasp the figure clambering from the crater, the twin powers of demonfire and shadow, woven seamlessly together with flawless control, shot towards their victim, picking up the flailing figure and pounding him into the stream.

Water vapourised instantly in the inferno, sending steam hissing into the air and occluding their vision. The thunder of the impact echoed off the hills around them.

Priest stepped forward, the wires linking him to some of the others trailing behind him. With little time to prepare a ritual, he would have to rely on his own mastery of his Art, while drawing on the potentials of those he was attached to, mainly, like the Constructor, research mages, the Tamer amongst their number. With no ritual, it would be their power against the creature's.

A shape appeared in the smoke, resolving into the form of the boy. His clothes and hair had been blasted to nothing, and scorch marks and dirt caked his scrawny body, a body that seemed far larger and more menacing as he strode towards them. His young features were set into a disappointed frown and his face was streaked in blood. The Constructor gasped and corrected himself, no, the boy was _crying_ blood, his eyes bloodshot a crimson red.

Priest set himself in the path of the entity and the Constructor quickly cut his palm and set the end of the wire against the opening, holding it tightly, the others doing the same. The copper wire began to hum as Priest drew on their powers, harnessing and weaving them with his own.

There was nothing for it now, they had poked the bear and now they must deal with the consequences.

The boy was about ten paces away by the time Priest finished his chanting, reaching up to his head and ripping a great handful of his iron-hued hair from his scalp, flinging it forward with a shout of a word of power. The Constructor winced as he felt a large portion of his man drawn through the wire.

Suddenly the ground exploded as a mass of heavy iron chains sprouted from the earth, crashing down on top of the thin figure. He buckled, the weight of all that metal immense, but righted himself and tried to continue forward as the chains wrapped around his arms and legs, torso and neck.

The Constructor knew that Priest was a disciple of the magic of blood, bone and soul, the magic of the troll witchdoctors and their voodoo gods, and he knew that the number of chains was exactly the number of hairs that had been flung against the ground.

And once the chains were gone the being would be upon them.

A wrench of his arm and a set of chains came loose from the earth, soon unraveling to mere strands of hair.

It wasn't going to be enough; he needed to be weakened further to allow the binding magic to hold.

The Constructor may not have been a battle mage, uncomfortable with the war cants, but he was an archengineer and was far from defenseless.

Making sure to keep a tight grip on the wire digging into the cut on his palm, he shifted his staff in his other hand, pointing its tip towards the heaving mass of metal and flesh.

It seemed that some of the others had reached the same conclusion as he had, and he could sense the Wizard marshalling her powers once again, and the dark stain of Mavelloc's summonings: apparently he was excited enough to pour out his true calling – the forbidden arts of demonology.

The Constructor shrugged and let a tiny portion of his mana leak into his staff. He felt the shifting of gears and humming as his technology transformed and converted, releasing stored up energy in a blindingly incandescent parabola that lit up the night and lanced into the being's chest, who howled and writhed even harder against his bonds.

The Constructor kept up the pressure as shadows coalesced around the figure, ice-hearted voidwalkers whose fists pummeled into the boy, who had now dropped to one knee. Once again, pure white stars crashed into him, the Wizard's wrath flaying the grass from the ground, muffling the creak of the chains.

But even under all this punishment, the boy fought, his free arm ripping apart the voidwalkers as they attacked, tearing them into tatters that he threw to the wind. More chains were flung off his back and the Constructor poured more of his power into his staff, it beginning to whine with the strain.

_Enough!_

The voice rumbled out and the boy seemed to swell, a red mist forming around him. The Constructor's eyes danced from the chain-wrapped figure to Priest; was this meant to be happening? The human was leaning over, his hands on his knees and looked to have a smile on his lips, yet to the Constructor's eyes his chains were becoming more and more insubstantial, now opaque as the mist reared up.

The light from his staff winked out, the machinery burned through and Wizard dropped to her knees, spent. The boy was completely uncovered now, the red mist surrounding him like a halo above his head.

Priest shook his head and mouthed some words.

There was a sense of outrage and the mist was dragged back into the boy, who shuddered and fell onto his backside, right in the middle of the circle of devastation.

He had done it!

Priest had completed the binding. The spirit was trapped inside the body and bound to his control, they had bought him just enough time with their assault.

The stumpy gnome surveyed his Fellows, most were slowly lowering themselves to sit, though Priest still stood, pride holding him up he suspected and of course Mavelloc, his milky-white eyes flat and emotionless, did not seem fazed at all.

A hard won victory then, but, looking at the destruction they had wrought and the completely undamaged youth that had weathered it all…

…What a prize!


	3. Chapter 3

The man who was known as Priest to his colleagues, who had once been hailed as Brother Silus Merriweather, stroked his fingers carefully across his chin and cheeks. He had always kept a fairly neatly clipped beard, iron grey though is was these days, but lately it had grown wildly, and with his mind locked onto other matters, matters of such grave import, he had not tended to it in days.

The elf, this Shatterstar, had left. He had needed to reassure those close to him that he still lived, that he had not been abducted or killed. Priest had welcomed the break from the battered old warrior – he had sensed a barely restrained hostility that at times had been quite frightening. He had always been a man of the mind; a boy of books, then a priest, and now a scholar, and people of action were both alien and intimidating to him, no matter what powers he now commanded.

But what insights he had gleaned! Shatterstar was obviously deluded – he might never say to his face, those feverish eyes – but underneath the elf's insane beliefs there had been the hidden glimmer of truth. He now had a much clearer idea about what the Bound One was and if Priest had been an adherent of a god, he would have surely dropped to his knees and prayed his thanks. To think that an entity such as the ones he had spent his adult life researching should drop into his lap! It was as if Fate itself had chosen him for this moment, to finally achieve the long sought goal.

He quickly checked the glyphs of chaining one more time, eyes closing as the ghostly lights of magical energy filled his vision. They still held, not a stroke out of place. It seemed the captive had stopped probing the limits of his cage. Priest gave a silent sigh of relief, thinking back to the first days when his will had been in constant battle with the captive's and the wards and bindings had been tested to breaking point, needing to be renewed almost hourly. The strain and toll it had taken on him until Sandor had delivered his engines…

Satisfied that the Bound One was not liable to break free in the next few days at least, Priest returned to his desk and unrolled a fairly dog-eared document detailing further the findings from Zul'Drak.

Many hours later, with only a few bites taken from the tray of food balanced precariously on the edge of his desk, Priest reclined and stretched his aching back. Bones popped in his spine and he let out a long groan. Reaching out he swiped a piece of parchment from a pile and quickly scribbled out a short list of Drakkeri artifacts. Waving the parchment and blowing on it to dry the ink, Priest idly thought about his colleagues when they learned of his successes. He stopped suddenly and held the paper still before him, a frown forming on his age-weathered face. A moment later he had retrieved another sheet of parchment and, in a hasty scrawl, copied out the list, except this time it was one very important item shorter.

_Better the others don't know about that one yet,_ he thought to himself as he waved dry the ink. It was likely that none of the Convocation would understand the item's significance anyway, but just in case he would keep it to himself for now. He had begun thinking that the captive belonged to him lately, and it would not do to have the others worrying about his plans and interfering. He had never bothered them in their work, and after all, they all wanted the same thing.

It wasn't his fault that he was actually on the cusp of getting it.

He allowed himself a brief grin. With the partition open in his workshop he couldn't help but feel watched, even with the captive keeping his head bowed. He had to admit that the feeling was becoming quite tiresome, grating on his nerves, invading into his sense of privacy. He would have to do something about that soon.

Reaching over, he flicked a switch. It turned on the small buzzbox that linked to a private channel that only the fellows and a few select operatives had access to.

'Sandor, are you there?'

The crackle and buzz of static

'I wonder if you might come to my temple for a chat. I need something organized.'


End file.
